


a by-product of boredom

by simplyclockwork



Series: Tumblr Inspired/Prompted Sherlock Fics - Part One [13]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, M/M, Overdose, POV John Watson, Prompt Fic, Sherlock Holmes and Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-02
Updated: 2019-12-02
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:21:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21645169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplyclockwork/pseuds/simplyclockwork
Summary: Prompted by @purplegori on Tumblr using these numbered prompts from a tumblr drabble prompt list:60: “Can we just pretend like we’re normal for once?”61: “I told you not to fall in love with me.”62: “Please shut up. Just shut up.”
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Tumblr Inspired/Prompted Sherlock Fics - Part One [13]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1528859
Comments: 13
Kudos: 38





	a by-product of boredom

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NotACapriSun](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotACapriSun/gifts).



Despite Sherlock’s warnings that life with him will never be easy, never be simple—that there could be danger—John never really heeds the warning. He goes along with everything, all the insanity that comes with being best friends with Sherlock Holmes, risking his life and limb for a madman with dark curly hair.

So, when he goes and falls for the madman, he’s not particularly surprised. But he keeps it to himself. Tells himself there will come a time when the moment is right. Months pass and slip into years. The words never come, and Sherlock never figures it out. John keeps the knowledge inside; swallows it down a tight throat and locks it within an aching chest.

It is with bitter, awful irony that when Sherlock finally understands, it is beyond too late.

There’s a phone call while he’s at work: Sherlock, dialling him up when he’s heading into exam room 3. Frustrated, John snatches the phone from his pocket; answers the call and presses the mobile to his ear. “Sherlock, I’m at work.”

“Yes, John, I am aware.”

John sighs. He pinches the bridge of his nose and tries not to roll his eyes. “If you know, then why are you calling me?”

“Because John. I am _bored_.” The last word emerges almost as a whine, and John actually _does_ roll his eyes this time.

“Sherlock, I’ve told you, time and again, not to call me when I’m at work.” John’s voice is rough and annoyed.

“There’s nothing happening, John. I am absolutely without any distraction. It is _torture_.”

John sighs again, raising his eyes to the ceiling and begging for patience. “Bloody hell, Sherlock. Can we just pretend like we’re normal for once?”

There’s a long moment of silence, into which Sherlock finally breathes a harsh puff of air through the phone. “All right, John.” His voice is hard, yet strangely, helplessly defeated.

John opens his mouth to reply, to say he’ll be home in a couple of hours, but the line goes dead and silence hums in his ear. Dropping the mobile back into his pocket, he heads into the exam room.

When the day finally draws to a close, John feels a weird sense of unease buzzing at the back of his head. Today isn’t the first time Sherlock has hung up on him, but usually, he follows the dramatic end of the call with several annoyed texts, badgering John into feeling bad for ignoring him. But today, since the abrupt end of the call, there has been nothing but radio silence from the detective. John assumes he likely found something to hold his attention—maybe Lestrade came through with a case at the eleventh hour—and yet, he still feels… unsettled.

Climbing the stairs to the flat, John is struck by the heavy silence of the place. Sherlock must have gone out. John thinks of ordering a takeaway. Maybe from that Thai place Sherlock likes so much, to make up for snapping at him earlier. Pulling his mobile out of his pocket, he moves through the hall to the kitchen; reaches for the takeout menu and pauses. Something catches his attention, standing out at the corner of his eye. John frowns; turns and spots something blue.

Sherlock’s dressing gown, and his hand, limp and white.

With legs lead-heavy, John drops his phone from suddenly numb fingers. Stepping into the sitting room, he finds Sherlock slumped on the floor, where he has clearly slipped off the sofa. His eyes are closed, face grey; skin blue around the lips. There are shadows under his eyes, darker than seems possible. The left sleeve of his robe is pushed up, and there’s a faint bruise in the crook of his arm; just beyond his loose fingers, an empty syringe.

John’s skin tingles and a chill drops over him. He steps forward and stares. Calls out, “Sherlock?” Nothing. Silence. The heavy air of the flat; the stillness of Sherlock’s chest.

The empty barrel of the syringe.

“Sherlock.” John drops to his knees, grabbing at the man on the floor. He passes his palm over the still face. Feeling hardly any breath against his hand, he presses two fingers to Sherlock’s neck. There’s nothing at first, just cold and clammy skin—then, there. Faint, so faint. The flutter of a pulse. “Jesus, Sherlock.” He shakes the other man; digs his fingers into the trapezius muscle and pinches with force.

Sherlock gasps in a breath as his eyes fly open, face contorting with pain. He stares in reproached confusion at John, eyes vacant and fuzzy. “John…?”

John sucks in a loud, uneven breath. “What the hell, Sherlock?” he snaps, grabbing at the detective’s shirt and shaking him. “What the _hell?”_

Sherlock blinks at him, eyes half-closed and face still deeply pale. There’s still a blue tinge to his lips and he seems to be slipping away. John shakes him again. “ _Sherlock._ ” The detective’s eyes widen, pupils dilating as he looks at John. His gaze sharpens and clarifies, eyebrows rising with understanding. A softness filters into his vacant face, and John stares at him.

“John.” Sherlock croaks. “I told you not to fall in love with me.”

John frowns and jerks away. “How do you—you never said anything like that.”

Sherlock’s lips curl, almost a smile beneath the blue cast. “Married… to my work,” he mumbles, voice beginning to fade. “I said… but didn’t mean…” The words trail off and Sherlock’s eyes slip shut. “Sorry… John.”

But John grabs him again. He brings their heads close together and cups Sherlock’s face between his hands. “Shut up, Sherlock," he growls. “Please shut up. Just shut up.” He reaches into his pocket and finds it empty. Cursing, he recalls dropping his phone.

“Okay, John,” Sherlock murmurs, limbs loosened and heavy.

“No. No, Sherlock. Don’t,” John snaps, shaking the other man with desperate violence. But Sherlock’s eyes are closed, and John can’t feel his breath against his cheek anymore. “Sherlock—Sherlock? _Jesus,_ Sherlock.”

Grabbing the detective by the shoulders, he lays him onto his back; tilts Sherlock’s jaw up with one hand and plugs his nose with the other. Bending down, he presses his lips to Sherlock’s open mouth and pushes air into silent lungs. As soon as John starts the rescue breaths, he curses himself for dropping his phone in the kitchen. Even as he breathes life into the still body of his flatmate, he knows help wouldn’t arrive in time—that _he_ didn’t arrive in time.

The moment has passed, in every sense of the word. 


End file.
